


Shame

by Starla-Nell (Princess_Nell)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bodily Fluids, Bondage, Close call, Dom!Vivienne, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, F/F, Gags, Humiliation, Mirror Sex, Morrigan is a mess, Name-Calling, Object Penetration, Overstimulation, Rape Fantasy, Rejected Sex Toy, Semi-Public Sex, Vivienne makes her clean it up, Vivienne takes Morrigan apart one stitch at a time, Voyeurism, drool, mind tricks, skill not size, sub!Morrigan, suddenly-not uncomfortable sex, talking into sex, uncomfortable sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-04 16:55:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10283657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Nell/pseuds/Starla-Nell
Summary: When Bull ends their play to focus on Cadash, he suggests going to Vivienne for the particular brand of gratification Morrigan prefers. She has her doubts, but gives it a try.





	1. Shame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RowynSN](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowynSN/gifts).



> Written for the prompt:  
> “Vivienne/Morrigan …  
> “3. Rivals that have to work together.  
> “4. Kinky and dark as fuck porn. Or just some dark ass shit.”  
> I use the rival aspect a little, and apparently this is as dark as I get (for now).  
> Needless to say, this fic contains horrible kink ettiquette. There are no safe-words or opportunities for the sub to communicate well. There is no clear indicator for Morrigan when Vivienne is being herself and when she is playing the scene. And, well… you read the tags, right? Dub-con is never good kink ettiquette.
> 
> That said, this Vivienne is using shame and name-calling because it’s the kink. She does not actually see Morrigan in a negative light after the afternoon tea in this fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can spot the scene in this chapter that was inspired by this comic/photoset by dakkun39.  
> This photoset also inspired my interpretation of Vivienne for this prompt.

“Bull, perhaps you have forgotten? I prefer _men_.” Morrigan tosses her vibrant red cowl on over her bra and jewelry.

The massive, irritating Qunari shrugs, already dressed. “I was hoping maybe that was flexible. Like the looks you give Cadash made me wonder.”

Morrigan blinks. “What? You’d wish me to join you?” She shakes her head. “I think not.”

Bull laughs. “Ah, no. You like to play at humiliation, but neither of you needs Cadash knowing _you_ were on my ‘to fuck’ list.”

_Were._ Bull made their last time together memorable, but he also made it clear the Inquisitor is his top priority. His only priority. And Cadash needs him to be exclusive. After months of… friendship, Morrigan is being _excluded_.

“When I asked what I’d do without you, I hardly expected an answer.” Morrigan sighs and puts up her hair, first releasing the ridiculous pigtails—a provocative touch, she muses.

“Well, I don’t want to leave you hanging. Vivienne might not have the parts you’re looking for, but she has the right skill set. She could be one of the best. It’s something to consider.”

“You speak as though you’re familiar with her skill set.” Morrigan smirks. She hadn’t thought of Bull as a switch.

“Not quite my _thing_ , but she’s put me in my place, yeah. Likes to be called ‘ma’am.’ My sources can only find one person she’s fucked, but she _would_ enjoy giving you the extra boost you need. If you convince her you’re worth her time.” Bull smiles to show he doubts it will be a concern.

“If she can humble you, I’ll consider it.” Morrigan says, eyeing her intimidating friend and pulling on one glove. “I have nothing against sex with women, but it has never appealed.” Morrigan shrugs. “You might be setting me up for failure. It sounds like she’s choosier than you.”

“Oh, I may be easy, but I’m also picky. And whatever I’ve said in bed, you were _always_ worth my time.” Bull gives Morrigan a very platonic hug, as he always does after their… benefits.

“Thank you, Bull,” she mutters into the harness over his bare chest. If she says it quietly enough, they can pretend she didn’t.

He pulls back to look eye to eyes. “Vivienne can get your rocks off, but don’t let _anyone_ convince you this shame shit is real,” Bull says. “It’s just fun.” 

Morrigan slaps his shoulder with her other glove, smiling. “’Tis not truly a risk.” She’s rewarded with his rich laugh.

###

“Come, Vivienne, we both held the same position. Surely we can be cordial?” Morrigan says.

“Always, my dear,” she replies pleasantly enough, but her eyes never leave the ramparts, where several clusters of Inquisition personnel are conversing in the quickly-fading light. Inattentive. In Orlais, duels have been called for lesser offences. _But we’re not in Orlais, and I am not Orlesian._ The sun has already disappeared behind the western mountain to their right, casting long shadows, but the sky shall stay bright yet awhile.

“What, pray tell, is so interesting?” Morrigan joins Vivienne at the banister of her outdoor balcony, noticing for the first time a set of opera glasses in her hand.

“Nothing yet, my dear. But it’s a Wicked Grace night, and Josephine is playing,” she says, as if that explains everything.

“Mmm,” Morrigan says, glancing toward the Herald’s Rest, where the game was no doubt occurring. Where the Iron Bull spent most of his off-time.

The Herald. Damn her. Morrigan might have continued getting her needs met by Bull if only Herald Cadash… didn’t need him more. Morrigan sighs. Now she is left seeking to meet her needs with this cold witch. Although…Morrigan could do worse. The woman certainly looks the part.

She waits, admiring her fellow mage out of the corner of her eye, examining herself for any flicker of desire. Madam de Fer is impeccably dressed, as always, the silver, gold, and white of her robes contrasting dramatically with her flawless, deep brown skin. Her Orlesian henin, high collar, ornate sleeves, and plunging neckline showcase Vivienne’s confidence and give her the _presence_ Morrigan would want. Bull did it with size. Vivienne de Fer does it with style. As an experiment, Morrigan imagines herself kneeling before Vivienne, one exquisitely heeled boot resting on Morrigan’s shoulder. Morrigan finds that flicker, but shies away from it. What if she gets her hopes up and it doesn’t work for her? What if Bull’s wrong, and Vivienne wouldn’t be interested? What if Vivienne uses her as a pawn in the Game?

This is a terrible idea.

“Aha,” Vivienne says, perking up and raising the glasses. Morrigan’s eye is caught by a quick-footed figure. Message runners are common, but as she focuses, she realizes this one is naked. A streaker? Under the watch of Commander ‘No-Nonsense’ Cullen? Unlikely. Morrigan smiles and gives the prankster a closer look.

It _is_ Cullen.

Morrigan feels doused in ice-cold water. She turns to Vivienne, who is _savoring_ the view. Her desire finds a focus: she wants Vivienne to look at _her_ like that.

“That man has been through enough,” Morrigan says.

“Nonsense,” Vivienne says, lowering her glasses. The show is over that quickly. “Seeing or not seeing does not make him suffer more or less. Now, using the knowledge later?” Vivienne smiles wickedly. “ _That_ would be cruel.”

Even at a distance, Morrigan had seen his blush, his humiliation, as he ran. However… ‘twas not the look of someone crushed. Commander Cullen’s legacy is no house of cards, to crumble at something so trivial.

“What of you, my dear?” Vivienne says. Morrigan finally has the undivided attention of Madam Vivienne de Fer. She realizes as her courtly habits kick in that her pining may have been visible.

“What of me?” Morrigan says, gathering her wits. _My legacy won’t be a house of cards, either._

“What do you need?”

Morrigan is struck dumb. _She couldn’t know with a glance, could she?_

Vivienne sighs. “You’re here for a reason. What could it be, I wonder?” The exasperation on Vivienne’s face…

Morrigan turns her eyes to the fading ramparts to compose herself.

“Purely a social call, I assure you.” She returns her gaze to Madam de Fer. “One former Imperial Mage to another.”

“My dear, there is no such thing as a ‘pure’ social call,” Vivienne says, raising her glasses again to peer at Morrigan. Serault glass, Morrigan realizes with a twitch. They are set in a mask like an owl’s face. Morrigan feels…dissected, pinned under the masks’ glassy stare. How much does she know… or suspect? “I do not see how socializing with an ill-bred apostate could benefit _me_.” She lowers the glasses and gives Morrigan a haughty once-over. It’s perfect. Morrigan decides to try talking with Vivienne about…sex. Mixing sex with humiliation. Indeed. Easier said than done. But she must first prove she’s worth Vivienne’s time. Why does the Iron Lady seem much more daunting than the Iron Bull?

Is it related to the reason she’s never entertained interest in women before?

“Your Circle-ingrained prejudices do you no favors, Vivienne. However, perhaps you have a point,” Morrigan admits, blushing and turning to the ramparts once more. “Such connections as mine are scattered, and we do not seek the same sources of power. However, we might discover an arrangement of benefit to us both.” Morrigan glances at her hostess. Vivienne responds with an impeccably arched eyebrow.

The opals in Vivienne’s henin and belt are very much like those inlaid in a mirror Morrigan stole as a girl. The hopelessness of wanting someone so beautiful and grand overwhelms her. Vivienne was born for court. She was made for the kind of life Morrigan struggled to achieve. Yes, Morrigan achieved it, but… she could not hope to meet her expectations.

“I simply wanted to get to know you better, to see if that might be the case.” Morrigan turns to leave. _I was a fool to think I could impress someone like her._ “Perhaps… I was mistaken.”

Vivienne watches her pass through the doors from the outdoor balcony to the heavily-shadowed indoor balcony above the Inquisition’s Great Hall before she says, “I take tea on that balcony at a _civilized_ hour, my dear. You may attend me tomorrow, if you wish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for my complete lack of self-control on the "eye to eyes" thing. 
> 
> Bull is involved as a device to get Morrigan and Vivienne together. If you’re curious about the past Bull/Morrigan, say so in the comments and I’ll add it to my to-do list.


	2. Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morrigan enjoys tea with Vivienne and a few other guests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter lays groundwork for a future for this pairing. Feel free to skip it if you prefer to get right to the smut!

The various ideas around tea in Thedas never cease to amuse Morrigan. For instance, in Ferelden, tea is a morning beverage: brewed hot and fast and drunk with breakfast, then from a canteen throughout the day. The Orlesians, in contrast, consider such practices barbaric. Tea in Orlais is an entire meal: based around perfecting the beverage, plus enough food to endure the long afternoon ‘twixt lunch and the fashionably late evening meal.

Morrigan joins Vivienne just as the Hall servants are leaving the balcony overlooking the Inquisition throne. In the daytime, the sunlight here is always bright, because of the windows, but never direct, since they face south.

This is a horrible idea. Morrigan is always careful in every move she makes. She still isn’t completely sure it could even work for her, and there’s nothing someone like Vivienne wouldn’t use for her own advantage in the Great Game. The risk of it, perversely, keeps her walking forward. She wonders what it would be like to make one horrible choice.

Vivienne is on the couch set in its usual place next to the glass doors ‘twixt her two balconies. This couch cuts the broad indoor balcony into a more intimate setting. Normally, a matched pair of chairs forms the other boundary of the cozy area, but these chairs are pulled up to the table. She’s pouring tea… for three masked guests: the Comtess Braganza and her husband, plus Madam Belvoir. At least Belvoir is an ally, but the Comtess is… difficult. The door onto the landing clangs behind Morrigan, the second door-clang muffled as the servants descend the stairs.

“Excellent, my dear!” Vivienne says as she hands Madam Belvoir her cup. Her voice is like bells of superb quality. It invites Morrigan to be seated. “I’m so pleased you could make it. There is far too much food for us. Perhaps a little less will go to waste.” Her enthusiasm-infused words could be sincere or taunting. Morrigan’s feet move without a real decision.

“Humpt,” the Comtess hiccups skeptically, perched on the edge of the wide, backless couch. Morrigan’s ability to translate courtly subtleties lurches into gear: _Afternoon tea might be wasted on an apostate._ She wishes she had dressed for court, as these fools seem to have. She straightens her neck, imagines her long, velvet dress flowing from her waist, nearly as low-cut as her draping cowl, and takes a seat in the remaining chair, tucking her leather skirt as though ‘twere of finest silk.

“I appreciate your invitation, Madam de Fer.”

“It was kind of you to join us.” Interesting that Vivienne has donned neither a mask nor henin. She can hardly afford to call herself Orlesian. “Please excuse the rather cobbled arrangements, my dear. I simply love the air here.” The small table is set low enough to be convenient from Vivienne’s couch. Morrigan can reach the center tray of food without lifting out of her chair, including delicate sandwiches cut into tiny sections, scones with clotted cream and jam, cakes, and macarons.

“Morrigan, have you met my other guests?”

“Yes. Comtess Braganza, we met at court. I did not realize you and your husband were gracing Skyhold.” Morrigan nods to him, and he gives a faint smile under the mask covering the top half of his face.

“Hmm.” The Comtess hides her non-answer in a sip of tea. Her mask matches his, although the reverse is more accurate.

“Madam Belvoir, how fares your daughter? No injury due to all the violence I hope?”

“Yes, thank you, Lady Morrigan, she is with the Inquisition now and better than last we spoke.” Madam Belvoir is also wearing a mask, this one of her own house. Her tone is aloof. _Hmm._

“I’m pleased to hear it. Things must have improved indeed.” The woman had been frantic, but only free to share her concern with a foreign mage of few connections. Morrigan had told stories of the Blight’s hardships to encourage her, and they had gotten along well enough.

“Indeed.” She twitches her head to one side, almost a shake. _I need these people, but they do not like you._ Interesting. Had she been a topic of conversation? Morrigan remembers her position here is secure.

“Morrigan, how do you take your tea?” Vivienne is acting the perfect hostess, whatever had been said.

“Two lumps, if you will, no milk.”

Vivienne pours Morrigan’s tea over two sugar cubes. Morrigan accepts it, sips, and nibbles a bite of sponge cake from a silver fork. The thing is a triumph. It appears, at first blush, to be a plain block of candy. When sliced, the covering is revealed to be a thin, pliable sheet of white candy. The exposed inside is two rich cakes dyed pink and orange, cut precisely, and rearranged like a checkerboard. The cake’s amazingly tender for something so sturdy.

This cake is served in the garden often enough. Eating it _here_ tells her she’s been a court brat in borrowed clothes playing at tea.

“It’s a shame, what happened to the Circles,” the Comtess picks up the prior conversation.

Morrigan snorts delicately, annoyed at her own awe. “Orlesians have such talent for understatement.” She allows sarcasm to tinge her remark.

“Mm,” Vivienne demurs. “You spent time in Ferelden, didn’t you, my dear?” _Such a barbaric country._

“Indeed. During the Blight, you may recall.” _With the Hero, saving the world._

“I see. Then allow me to explain the comment, my dear.” _Because you haven’t learned how to decipher it on your own._ “In Orlais, worthwhile issues and people are treated with discretion. The less direct the treatment, the more effort used to convey the point, the more importance it has.” _And you are worth no such effort._

Morrigan’s ears burn as she sips her tea. ‘Tis excellent, brewed only a few moments longer than it aught. Its calming effects are lost on her. The Comtess and her husband lean forward, leering and delighted at her discomfort. Belvoir shifts in her chair.

Vivienne’s face is a mask of haughty indifference.

“How old are the Blighted lands of Orlais?” Morrigan says to no one in particular. “Haven’t they only begun to support life seven centuries after the second Blight? ‘Tis difficult indeed to recover after nine decades under darkspawn rule.” Morrigan takes another sip, bypassing mention of the barbaric Fereldens who ended a Blight in less than a year. _I can be as discreet as anyone, but sometimes directness accomplishes more._

“Did Ferelden defeat a true Blight during their civil war? It seems unlikely,” says Madam Belvoir. _I am choosing my side. My need outweighs our friendship._ Morrigan wonders which was the true face, this doubt or the abandon with which she listened to her stories only months ago.

“Perhaps the darkspawn believed,” the Comtess’ consort speculates, “they could overrun Ferelden and entrench to conquer Thedas?” _Fereldens are no worthy opponent._

“Darkspawn are, with few exceptions, mindless. Underestimation is the least error we can expect from such creatures,” Morrigan says, flicking her fingers at him. _You are their equal for making the same mistake._ This comment has the side-benefit of referring to historical Orlesian underestimation of Fereldens. “But enough of that. Madam Belvoir, I was not aware you kept society with Madam de Fer. How did you meet?” _And what is worth sacrificing my pleasant company?_

“Ah,” she says, “my daughter recommended Madam Vivienne as an ally in these troubled times.” _What could it be? Political power for mages? A higher Inquisition position for her daughter? A territorial dispute?_

“These times are indeed troubled,” agrees the Comtess. “Is it true, _Lady_ Morrigan? You became Court Mage after Madam de Fer left? An unlettered apostate?”

“I daresay I read more languages than you, Comtess,” Morrigan chides her, “and I would remind you that all mages are apostates now.”

“Some of us are more practiced at apostasy than others, darling,” Vivienne snipes sweetly.

“We aided the Empress in different ways, Vivienne.” No point in using honorifics if her hostess refuses to even use her name.

“What did you bring the Empress?” the Comtess presses, goaded by their hostess’s veiled disdain. “Her own cousin betrayed her under your eyes.”

“And under your own, Comtess. Ah, no, I forget. You weren’t often at court.”

“Yet, it seems that a court mage and _close_ advisor should be able to root out that sort of problem before it festers.” The Comtess’ tone and direct speech display her contempt and insinuate worse.

“‘Twas festering long before I arrived.” Morrigan notes the twitch at Vivienne’s lip. Dangerous, if beguiling, territory. “To the point, my specialty is magical artifacts, not detecting treason.”

“A subject the Empress is fascinated with. I wonder why that would be,” the Comtess says, sipping her tea and oozing Orlesian snobbery on the rug. _Perhaps a certain apostate encouraged her?_

Morrigan smiles, absently tracing her fingers in the carvings adorning the wooden arm of her chair. “‘Tis not my place to say.” _I know a secret of the Empire, but I shall not betray that confidence to you._

“Well, I suppose such toys must have kept her entertained while you were there.” Vivienne says. This comment is as simple as the cake: _this topic is pleasing, and the fickleness of the Empress may explain her second choice of Imperial Mage._

“What do you suppose she hoped to do with these…artifacts? I heard she had a… fascination… with elves.” _Perhaps Morrigan helped the Empress sate her rumored sexual curiosity._ As if she’d dealt in Elven dildos or ancient erotic art.

“Do you think it could be about elves?” Madam Belvoir says, summoning outrage. “I’d hope it would be more important.” _Because what could be less important than elves?_ If nothing else, Morrigan’s _former_ acquaintance is revealing her prejudices. Absurdly, Morrigan wishes Leliana had joined them. She would know exactly how to use such information in the Game.

“Who knows? When we cannot examine the research, we must doubt its use to the Empire,” Vivienne says.

Now to defend herself, Morrigan is expected to expose information she—and the Empire, and soon the Inquisition—need to remain secret. She grits her teeth and scrambles to think how to turn the conversation.

“Any valid research would rightfully be in a Circle, wouldn’t you agree, Comtess?” continues Vivienne, filling Morrigan’s silence.

“Of course,” the Comtess agrees readily, watching Morrigan’s face from behind her mask. “Anything beneficial to the Empire should be accessed equally.” _I ask for the benefit of the Empire, not my own._

Morrigan suppresses a smile at the thought of equal access to the Eluvian roads. Elves would benefit disproportionately by design: not what human nobles with Elven servants intend to advocate with their careless words.

“A mere apostate could not possibly discover an artifact of importance,” Belvoir opines, shimmying out of her skin to join these vipers. “It’s a matter of resources.”

“In point of fact,” Morrigan snaps, “a ‘mere’ apostate can procure enlightenment from the Dalish, the Circles, and any other necessary source. An _independent mage_ can experiment, risking no one but herself under authority of no one but herself. Such a mage can outstrip ‘Circle resources’ any day, by virtue of her freedom.” Despite her words, Morrigan sets her teacup down too hard, cheeks aflame. The Comtess and her husband lean forward again. Morrigan has seen Vivienne’s look before.

This was her expression as Cullen ran naked along the ramparts.

“The tea was excellent.” Morrigan uses the most demure haste to exit, her food barely touched. She retreats not to the garden, but to the shelter of her private room, blushing, barely composed.

“I doubt you’ll see her again,” crows the Comtess.

“I wonder,” says Vivienne.

Morrigan throws herself on her bed, skin aflame. She touches her own cheek, recalling Madam de Fer’s expression… wondering if Vivienne knew Morrigan had gotten exactly what she needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A friend of mine makes a killer [Battenberg cake](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battenberg_cake), which _happens_ to be the cake at Vivienne’s tea. (I'll reveal the name after authors are revealed for the exchange.)


	3. Needy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which smut is had, though technically not sex.

Morrigan succeeds at avoiding Madam de Fer…for a week. That’s how long she can replay afternoon tea to her satisfaction. As the memory of the contempt and the burn of humiliation fade, Morrigan finds herself frustrated again.

Needy.

This is still a terrible idea, going to this Circle witch. Whoever heard of visiting someone—especially an exquisite player of the Game!—because they erode your self-confidence? She can think of twenty obvious reasons to not go, and not least is she’s not attracted to Vivienne. Granted, she’s gorgeous and imposing, with exquisite style, unshakable confidence, and the ability to cut Morrigan into ribbons— _why hasn’t she cut me to ribbons yet?_

Morrigan goes anyway.

###

“You’re back, darling,” Vivienne says, delighted. “After last week’s tea, I was afraid I wouldn’t see you again.” She gestures to a seat on the wide, backless couch. ‘Tis covered in embroidered satin but shaped as a bench. _Vivienne would never name this elegant piece a bench. Perhaps chaise lounge?_

Morrigan sprawls on the chaise, leaning on the white bolster tipped with gold-and-white tassels that trail nearly to the floor. There’s a fine pattern in the texture of the fabric, and Morrigan runs idle fingers over it.

“I’ve come to give you the opportunity to apologize on behalf of your guests,” Morrigan says, keeping a careful watch on Vivienne.

Vivienne laughs. “I think not. My guests revealed themselves all too easily. Unlike you, darling.”

Morrigan blinks as Vivienne settles onto the opposite end of the lounge. She seems like a light to Morrigan’s shadow. She glances toward the railing, which would allow her to see the throne at the furthest end of the Great Hall below, were she closer.

“I forgot to mention at tea that it is courteous to treat people by the rules of their own culture, but they should have known. I will apologize for _using_ you as a tool to test them. I _do_ hope you can forgive me?” There is the slightest twist to the word ‘using’ and slowing as she says the word ‘forgive’ that triggers Morrigan’s court translator, but it’s subtle. The suggestion she’s receiving is Vivienne hopes to never need forgiveness for using and humiliating Morrigan, but it’s too near what she wants. She might be reading beyond Vivienne’s intent.

“I’m surprised you would apologize for something so trivial. Is it not called the Game? Surely there exists no one who is not a pawn to a player such as yourself?”

Vivienne smiles. “You, my dear, have proven to be a mage-piece in the Game. You moved two directions at once. Though you did let yourself get taken”—again the tiniest stress to the word—“but we could work on that. You mentioned a mutually beneficial arrangement. I would be willing to use you, but what would you ask in return?”

 _To be used._ How does one go about saying that? After a 3-heartbeat pause, she licks her lips and says, “I’m sure I will come up with something.” She follows Vivienne’s glance so see a fading sweat-mark where her hand had rested. White satin. She’s tipped her cards.

“I have a suggestion you might like,” Vivienne says. She steps gracefully behind Morrigan to lift something from a drawer of the end table. Morrigan begins to twist, but Vivienne says, “No. Stay as you are, darling. That will suit me just fine.”

Morrigan allows Vivienne to step behind her unobserved. As Morrigan opens her mouth to say how little she cares for what suits Vivienne, she shoves something ‘twixt her teeth and pries her mouth open further.

Morrigan gasps. _What is she doing? How dare she? What is invading my mouth?_ The thought thrills and panics her. As Vivienne nimbly buckles straps behind her head to hold the object in place, Morrigan frantically explores it with her tongue.

‘Tis a metal ring, cushioned with leather to protect her teeth, held upright behind her teeth by the straps, pressed forward by the corners of her mouth. ‘Tis big enough to pry her jaws open wide. When Vivienne is done buckling, she strokes Morrigan’s bangs and smooths her pulled-back hair. It calms her. Morrigan can stick her tongue through the ring and out her mouth, and she can make noise, but she cannot form biting words or enlighten fools. Her courtly defenses are stripped from her with a simple device.

Once Morrigan has calmed a little, Vivienne bends over, sealing their lips together and shoving her tongue through the ring and into Morrigan’s mouth, running it in a circle. In spite of herself, Morrigan’s tongue flicks forward. Vivienne tastes like cardamom and spice.

“Aoah!” Morrigan mounts an objection as she pulls away. _Vivienne never asked if she could…_

“Better not make too much noise, darling,” Vivienne says quietly, settling on the couch with a book in hand, pushing Morrigan’s legs to one side. “They’ll hear you.” She nods over the banister rail to the nobles and Inquisition partners below. Morrigan sucks in a short breath.

“You will not touch the straps until you are ready to leave,” Vivienne says, and Morrigan’s hands fly up, but stop short of the buckles. “Oh! I see you forgot you have hands. Are you truly stupid, or do you want it that much?” Vivienne’s tone burns Morrigan like a brand. _This is exactly what I came for, but not like this. How dare she assume that I would want this. How did she know?_ Then Vivienne continues again in her conversational tone.

“If someone comes up the stairs, you will flatten yourself onto the couch, and I will protect you as best as I am able. Don’t worry, darling. I have as much to lose if we are caught. No one can see from here.” Vivienne reaches out to trace the line of Morrigan’s jaw. Vivienne shall take care of her. If she wants this, she should stay and let her. _Do I want this?_

“If they could, though, they would see how fragile this makes you look, mouth hanging open. Can you imagine someone coming up the stairs and seeing you like this? The Inquisitor, perhaps? Leliana or Cullen? Or that Grey Warden, Hawke’s friend? Yes, the Warden. You respect that Order, perhaps. Or do you know him from your time in Ferelden? What would he think? What might he say, when you cannot defend yourself?”

Morrigan had been schooling her expressions for months as part of the Game, but Vivienne can still read her clearly and guess her motivations. Morrigan moans, very softly. A red flush creeps across her chest and cheeks. Vivienne is looking at her as she had looked at Cullen. _Just as I wished._

“I wondered if you would come back. I knew that if you did, you would need this.” Vivienne traces a finger along a strap holding the gag in place.

If Morrigan’s going to stay, it’s time to learn where the boundaries are. She lifts one hand, leans toward Vivienne.

“No. You will not touch me.” The contempt is back, and Morrigan’s suppressed moan comes out breathy. “Put your arms behind your back and hold your elbows.” _No, this is good._ She does as she is told, taking time to pull her elbows with her fingertips until she has a good grip and can feel the strain in her shoulders. Her breasts thrust out from the new arch of her back.

Vivienne traces down Morrigan’s chest with a single finger, heating the sensitive flesh of her chest. Vivienne pushes the fabric off one breast, exposing it to the cool air. “This suits an ill-bred apostate better than velvet and gems.” Morrigan arches back, using her eyes to ask for more. “Rumor says you show flesh to taunt others with what they cannot have, but they’re wrong. You’re easy, Morrigan. A little disdain, a little rejection. Barely any effort at all. I suppose if I had a cock, you’d’ve been sucking it at tea, instead of running hot to your quarters. You prefer men, don’t you my dear?” For some reason, Morrigan shakes her head. Vivienne zaps the exposed nipple with a touch of lightning. It’s no more than the shock from a dry carpet, but Morrigan feels the jolt throughout her body. “Do not lie, my dear, it’s unbecoming.” The skin there feels oddly empty, clear. Morrigan pours all of her desire into the look she gives Vivienne, carefully pressing a leg against her back. She allows the contact and hums.

“There is nothing between your exposed flesh and our audience downstairs.” Vivienne bares the other breast, and Morrigan sucks in air. “Imagine them now. Varric would charge admission, I suppose. They would parade across my balcony, then whisper what a slut you are, to debase yourself like this. How they always knew you had no taste, no class. How they could have had you whenever they wanted.”

Morrigan’s thoughts spiral like a whirlpool dragging sailors to the deep: _The very idea is mortifying. Why does it set me aflame? Vivienne would never dare. But if she did? We’d be doomed. And yet—the idea is thrilling. No! I couldn’t live with myself. She never would._ Morrigan whimpers and the strain in her shoulders tightens.

“Imagine it, darling,” Vivienne continues in that low voice. “I could arrange a few visitors next time, if you wish. The Grey Warden?” Morrigan shakes her head, whimpering quietly again. _Fuck, no. She can see how riled I am by the idea of an audience. She cares not what I say. What if she does it?_ Vivienne smiles, opens her book to read. She glances up from time to time to shoot Morrigan that contemptuous glance. Once, she uses a finger to imperiously trace a line of drool Morrigan could not prevent from sliding down her chin. “Disgusting,” she says, wiping off on Morrigan’s clothes.

Morrigan hears people talking, moving below in the Great Hall and outside in the courtyard. Soon someone will climb the stairs to visit Madam de Fer and see Morrigan compromised. The fear of exposure pumps through her, speeding her breath and making it harsh. Her shoulders ache from holding her arms back. Finally, she can’t take any more. She has to touch herself—get some stimulation, or her mind will come unmoored. She releases her elbows and presses her palm against her pussy, arching into the contact. It feels good, but it’s not sufficient.

Vivienne snatches her wrist to end the touch. “You will control yourself in front of me. Stay or go, but if you stay you will obey.”

Morrigan whimpers and squirms, on the cusp either way, but Vivienne sets her hand to one side, savoring the sight of Morrigan panting and desperate, and picks her book up once more. _No! Don’t stop! I don’t want it to stop._ Never interested in women, now she imagines Vivienne pressing her into the chaise, Vivienne’s thigh ‘twixt hers, pouring insults like honey into her ear, rubbing her off fully clothed and naming her a slut for her lack of self-control. _Heavens be praised! The Void be cursed! This could work, and I don’t know whether to rejoice or despair._ But the Iron Lady offers nothing. Morrigan tears at the straps behind her head. When the gag falls away, Vivienne grabs her chin and uses a silk handkerchief to rub away lipstick the gag smeared.

“Good. It wasn’t tight enough to leave a mark.” She hands Morrigan another set of straps, black to match the gag. “Next time, wear this instead of leggings. No smalls.”

“No audience,” Morrigan replies. She hastily tucks her breasts away, folds the straps into a pouch, and flees to her room.

She doesn’t emerge for an hour.


	4. More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A good time is had, and so is Morrigan.

_Do I want this?_ The black straps form a harness. It has a wide belt for her waist, long but with holes for the buckle most of the way down its length and a few metal loops. Then there is a strap for each thigh, each wide as her hand, with thinner straps in front and back connecting the belt to the thigh straps, like a very sturdy garter belt. Metal loops are at the backs of the thigh straps.

_Do I want more?_ Morrigan wears it under her skirt and over her leggings several days, wondering how Madam Vivienne might use it, should she return. Then she wears it without leggings in her own room and knows she shall. The metal is cold against the skin of her legs, but it warms quickly. Morrigan wonders if she could control herself if she tried.

_Do I really want this?_ She finds herself in the short closed hall ‘twixt the door from the stairs and the door onto Vivienne’s balcony, harness trailing over the floor as she peels off her leggings. She folds the leggings carefully, and then climbs into the harness without tangling the straps. It doesn’t take long. Then she strides onto the balcony carrying her boots and leggings. The cool air makes the skin of her legs tingle.

“Darling, so good to see you,” Vivienne says in her friendly taunting tone. “I was hoping it wouldn’t take long for you to come again. I did _so_ enjoy your last visit.” She smiles and gestures to the couch. The tingling creeps up Morrigan’s legs. _I’m here, aren’t I? I must want this._

“I-I…” Morrigan takes a breath, glancing around, bare feet sinking into the rich rug and warming after the cold stone. “’Tis infrequent my tongue forms no words… ma’am.” Something has changed since last time—another painting?—but Morrigan is too distracted to pin it down.

“Ah, I was wondering if Bull had pointed you to me. He’s such a dear.”

Morrigan nods needlessly then flushes. She sits and tilts her head back, opening her mouth obediently. _I want this._

Madam Vivienne smiles. “Such a slut for it. So eager, my little apostate? So needy? No. Let us talk first.”

“Now you wish to speak with me?” Morrigan allows exasperation in her tone.

“Yes,” she shifts on the chaise, getting comfortable. “In civilized society, we talk before we fuck, darling.”

“Whence I come, that talk includes whether the people involved _want_ the activities in question.” Not entirely true, but close enough.

“And yet you’re eager to eschew your customs and mine to take away your power of speech.”

Morrigan opens her mouth, closes it again.

“And there we have it. I wanted you to know that I do not gag you because I fear your tongue. I gag you because it’s amusing, darling,” Vivienne says in her voice like bells. She stands again, retrieves the gag from the drawer, and holds it before Morrigan from behind, elbows resting on the high arm of the chaise. She gets her first good look at it: black leather with rivets in the style of a mabari muzzle, but shaped for a human. She can almost feel the straps against her face, and her throat tightens to strangle a moan of longing. Vivienne’s honeyed tongue sounds softly in her ear.

“As far as whether you want the _activities in question_ , I don’t think you do, darling. I think you _need_ them. You are addicted, as Cullen to his lyrium. You lack his resolve. You will come to me for as long as I allow it. Pray I allow it a very long time, because no one is as good as I am, darling.”

Morrigan still has no answer. Her speech is stolen, and the gag hasn’t touched her.

“Open wide, show me how much you need it,” says Vivienne. She hums her approval, then inserts the gag with little trouble and secures it. She turns Morrigan’s head, and there is a mirror leaning against the chair as if set down in the course of rearranging. Morrigan can see herself, animalistic and cowed. A tamed creature.

“Hold your arms behind you, as before,” Vivienne directs. Morrigan obeys, helpless by her own choice. A tear surprises Morrigan, sliding suddenly from her eye to the strap of the gag. In the mirror, the wet track glistens like a slug trail.

“These cushions go between your back and your elbows.” Vivienne helps her. The cushions, once arranged, push her ass away from her elbows, but she can lean onto the couch arm comfortably. Morrigan’s grip slips from her elbows to her forearms, but Vivienne doesn’t correct her. Instead, she undoes Morrigan’s hair, removing pins and untwisting it and combing it out with her fingers. _Like I’m a child,_ Morrigan thinks.

“What about the harness I gave you?” Madam de Fer doesn’t bother waiting for a response. She sits by Morrigan’s knees and pushes a hand up Morrigan’s thigh to feel the hidden strap there. Morrigan sucks a slow breath through the open gag. Vivienne checks the warm metal rings. “I suppose the task was simple enough, even for the uneducated,” she says. “However. I’ll grant a reward to encourage obedience. Place your feet flat on the couch, knees up.”

Morrigan hesitates: the position will expose her nakedness. She glances past the mirror at the door to the balcony.

“Remember, darling, I will protect you as best I’m able,” Vivienne offers, suddenly sympathetic. “If you’re not up for it, you truly may leave any time.”

Leaving would mean never knowing what Vivienne has planned. Heat pools under the belt of the harness. She lifts her knees as directed.

“Such a whore for it,” Madam Vivienne says, the contempt back in full force. Morrigan jerks back as it hits her, then squirms as it burns under her skin. _Is it good?_ She thinks so. Or is it real?

Vivienne puts her thumb through the ring into Morrigan’s mouth and strokes her tongue, as if she has the right. It’s oddly calming. She smells like a hand lotion popular in court this season. Morrigan’s tongue tingles from the embrium in it. She wipes her thumb on Morrigan’s hood. Then she wraps a cuff around each ankle.

These cuffs are wide, made of thick black leather but lined with in a soft, cushiony material. They have metal loops on them too, but Morrigan sees no rope.

“This is magic developed in a Circle,” Vivienne admits, “for this purpose.” Vivienne casts a spell that produces a strong green cord of force connecting the metal loops on the ankle cuffs to the back metal loops on the thigh straps. “I will end this spell the moment you release your arms, or if anyone visits me.”

Morrigan grunts and nods her acknowledgement, drool already trailing down her chin. She tests the spell by tugging, and it tugs back. It pulls her ankles a little closer to her thighs.

“Darling, struggle some more, this look is quite an improvement for you.” Vivienne sits on the couch in front of Morrigan. She is poised as though attending the Grande Royeaux Theater, with its masks and roles. _What is she seeing?_ Morrigan’s eyes are drawn again to the mirror. She tugs again, and the resulting jerk shakes a line of drool from her chin. Horrified, fascinated, Morrigan watches it string down to her cowl, darkening it. Morrigan whimpers softly and turns away from the image. She is an animal, nothing more, sullying her elegant surroundings. Frustrated, she pulls and is drawn tighter. Vivienne’s amused gaze is relentless. Morrigan’s skirt falls off her legs, but Vivienne shoves it down to trail intrusive, teasing fingers along her chest, tugging scraps of clothing aside and exposing her breasts to chill air again, tweaking her nipples gently. _And I can’t even touch her._ The shame of allowing herself to be used like this is overwhelming, confusing, and she can’t tell yet if it’s good.

“I have thought of you like this, darling, exposed and helpless. I have considered who I might show your improvement to. Perhaps that insulting Comtess? What do you suppose she would say?” _Vivienne will never speak to that Comtess._ The idea is Vivienne’s play, toying with Morrigan’s head. Something pops, and everything is perfect. Nothing is uncomfortable. Every emotion—the shame, the fear—is transformed to unmixed lust. Morrigan whimpers as Vivienne continues to touch her breasts, flick her nipples with cruel nails and chuckle as she writhes. She is tilted back enough she cannot change position without falling over or releasing her arms. “Perhaps Madam what’s-her-name who turned on you, hoping to profit.” Morrigan pulls on the magical bonds until her legs are uncomfortably tight, only her toes touching the couch. “Oh, darling, you’re all wet,” Vivienne says. Morrigan can feel it, too, oozing like the drool. “Haven’t I said you are a whore for this treatment?” Vivienne withdraws her hand from Morrigan’s chest, sliding her arm against one leg but touching nothing else. Morrigan arches up with a moan, but she can’t move much. “Hush, darling, you wouldn’t want them to hear, would you?” Morrigan hears a crowd downstairs. They are catcalling, and there is a rattle of chains.

A Judgment. The Inquisitor is passing a Judgment, and half of Skyhold is below to witness her decision.

“So many people. What if they hear you and believe there is violence? Bold rescuers would see you like this.” Vivienne trails fingers from Morrigan’s knee down her inner thigh, pushing gently to spread her knees. She has to move the other one wider to keep her balance. Her breathing picks up as she imagines it and begs Vivienne with her eyes to continue the touch.

“Where were we?” Vivienne says, stopping with her fingertips on Morrigan’s bare ass. “Ah, yes. You’re so wet. I have something you will like.” Vivienne pulls a toy from ‘twixt the cushions. ‘Tis a narrow wand, slightly longer than Vivienne’s hand, with a nub on the end. Very narrow. “Personally, I found it… unsatisfying, but you should find it sufficient for the task.”

Morrigan can’t help it: she huffs an open-mouthed laugh. Her last lover _certainly_ had much more to offer in the size department.

“I won’t _touch_ you there, so this will have to do for your reward,” Vivienne says. A used sex toy… _Wait, how recently used?_ Morrigan jerks against her bonds as Vivienne dips the toy into her and uses her juices to slide over her clit. She tilts her head back but _does not_ moan as thin wires of pleasure tingle from her clit through her gut and chest and down her legs. She hates it. She loves it. She needs more.

Vivienne leaves her panting. When Morrigan looks up, Vivienne is at the rail, watching the proceedings below. The toy is on a fine handkerchief on the chaise. After a time, she returns to the couch where Morrigan is trussed up. She runs vicious nails against her skin, reminding her quietly what would happen if anyone hears her moan. She paces back and forth during the Judgment, Morrigan a mere diversion for when proceedings drag.

Morrigan begins to hope for the discarded toy, and hate herself for wanting it. Every third or fourth time, Vivienne picks it up, dipping it inside her, but then she holds it lightly on her clit, forcing Morrigan to squirm weakly to get the stimulation she needs. Morrigan keeps waiting for these chances to pour her shame and fear and anticipation and the strain of her shoulders and legs into the pleasure. She keeps hold of her arms for this. She doesn’t want to return to her room. She wants her release here. Now.

Vivienne allows her to push herself to the edge of orgasm but puts the toy down to watch the last of the Judgment. Morrigan stays, panting, nerves singing. She catches her image in the mirror, and she looks like an animal in heat with nothing to mate. She averts her eyes, pleasure a sickening curl.

Things quiet below, the Judgment passed, and Vivienne gives her undivided attention to Morrigan. She picks up the toy and inserts it, pressing forward harshly to hit her sweet spot. Morrigan cringes. It’s supremely uncomfortable, even sharp, but Vivienne doesn’t relent, pressing repeatedly.

“Relax, darling. Imagine it’s a man.” She studies Morrigan’s face intently. _She knows this doesn’t feel right, and she’s doing it anyway._ Curiosity gets the better of her. Vivienne knew how to keep her on the edge. That edge is draining away, but she must have a reason. Morrigan keeps hold of her arms, does not remove the gag.

This toy is almost pencil thin. If this were a man, as Vivienne suggested, it would be the smallest man in Thedas. Morrigan might have rejected a man approaching her with such a cock.

This thought kicks off a rape fantasy, to Morrigan’s surprise and shame. _Who wants rape?_ She has allowed herself to be trussed up and thrown into a wagon, and they left the least reliable to watch her. He’s now fucking her—no! But she can’t stop it; he’s going to do what he wants.

So she might as well enjoy it.

The sharp, rhythmic pressure to her G-spot has been layering beneath notice, and now a sort of calm background feeling climbs toward orgasm. Her eyes fly open desperately, and she says “aoh” as softly as she can to warn Vivienne. That self-assured smile blooms on her face, and Vivienne stuffs the handkerchief into her mouth through the gag, then covers both with that hand, leaving her nose free and continuing to study her face. The other hand never lets up its rhythmic pressure, and as soon as Morrigan’s mouth is covered she stops blocking her orgasm. She can’t help it: she arches back against the arm of the chaise, actually brushing Vivienne, pleasure coursing through her. A part of her is aware of the hair matted against her damp face and wishes she could see herself, leaning on her folded arms, yanking at magical ties that pull her _too tight_ , shaking and muffled by a cloth that tastes of her own dried juices. The look on her face as Vivienne uses the toy to draw out her pleasure.

When she’s done, Vivienne leaves the toy in while she turns Morrigan a bit. Morrigan is disoriented, but when Vivienne stops moving she tangles her fingers in Morrigan’s hair and lifts her head.

“Look at yourself, darling. You’re a mess,” she says, leaning Morrigan back against her.

Morrigan opens her eyes to look in the mirror and cringes. Her hair is a wild, damp tangle. The handkerchief is gone, but her lipstick is smeared. She’s exposed, clothes a mess. She’s covered in sweat and drool and her own cum and a thin toy is sticking out of her twat.

“It has been entertaining picking you apart. But I want more material for my own fantasies tonight, my dear.”

Morrigan doesn’t think she can take any more. She whimpers, shakes her head. She’d rather lay here, thank you anyway. It doesn’t occur to her to let go of her arms.

Vivienne reaches down around her to remove the toy by its clean end.

“Quite a mess,” she says, and Morrigan thinks she’s going to clean it on Morrigan’s clothes, but she brings it up further and puts it in her mouth. “Lick it clean,” she says, and Morrigan does. Vivienne slides it sensually in and out of Morrigan’s mouth, and she gags once. She tastes herself on the toy. Her reflection looks like a slut, licking for the sensation in her mouth, and she plays it up to make it worse.  

_Is Madam going to use it?_ But she said ‘twas inadequate. Something about fantasy.

Vivienne lowers the toy to rub insistently among Morrigan’s glistening folds, watching in the mirror, and it’s too much. She’s too sensitive, she doesn’t need any more. A curl of shame joins the first stab of lust and pleasure.

“You little slut,” Vivienne says, and the shame builds. Morrigan channels it right back into the lust. She might as well enjoy it. “You didn’t get enough, did you? You want more,” she’s accusing now. Morrigan squirms against the sensations. _It’s too much I don’t want more. Do I?_ “You’ll cum again for me before we’re done, my dear.” _Oh, fuck, yes, please._

The door at the top of the stairs opens with a clang.

Panic grips Morrigan, and her lust evaporates as she releases her arms and her eyes fix on the closed door only feet from the stairs’ door. _Someone is walking where I stood before the Judgment, taking off my leggings._ Only moments to spare, Vivienne releases the binding spell as she stands to pull a silver-and-gold-threaded white blanket over Morrigan, who flattens onto the couch, curled on her side. She is covered from head to toe.

Vivienne says, “Don’t move,” in her ear through the blanket. _I will protect you as best I’m able, darling._

“Vivienne! Did…I catch you at a bad time?” Inquisitor Cadash asks as Vivienne stands. Of _course_ it had to be the Inquisitor. This time, the humiliation could go far beyond play.

“Don’t be ridiculous, my dear,” Vivienne says in a quiet but friendly voice. Like bells. “Any time is good for your visit. Or you might be referring to my guest? A friend will occasionally take advantage of my couch for a nap, that’s all.”

Folds of Morrigan’s leather skirt dig into her side.

“I see…” the Inquisitor sounds uncertain, but unwilling to push. “I should probably…”

“Nonsense. We can adjourn outside, so our conversation doesn’t disturb my guest.”

“Of course,” she says, and Vivienne shows the Inquisitor to the outer balcony.

Morrigan undoes the gag under the blanket, keeping low so the couch hides her from stray glances. The toy is not in view. She shoves the gag behind a cushion before peeking onto the outer balcony. Vivienne is gesturing to the courtyard below, drawing the Inquisitor’s eye. Morrigan unbuckles the cuffs which join the gag, grabs her pants and boots, and transforms into a bird for her escape.

###

‘Twixt the shame of their close call and the fuel the occurrence gives Morrigan’s fantasy life, it’s a full two weeks before she returns to Vivienne, leggings neatly folded over her arm and harness biting into her skin when her strides get too long.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t come back,” Vivienne says, holding the gag. “I promised you once more, after all.”

Morrigan smirks, and then trains her face into humility she doesn’t feel, yet. “’Twas impossible to stay away, ma’am.”

Vivienne smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank my incomparable betas [Rosehip](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosehip/pseuds/Rosehip) and [what_the_butler_saw](http://archiveofourown.org/users/what_the_butler_saw/pseuds/what_the_butler_saw) for convincing me NOT to let Cadash walk in about 5-10 minutes earlier. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

**Author's Note:**

> If this is what your relationship looks like from inside your head, there is Something Wrong. Find someone who understands and cares about your consent.  
> I don’t mean the humiliation play. Using shame to fuel lust is a time-honored tradition. With some good kink ettiquette, this could be a healthy relationship. This ettiquette includes a clear line between the Dom’s actual opinion of the sub and the humiliation play. Key word, play.  
> Oh! Also! Rape fantasy is nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a great way to subvert sex-negative cultural crap that says we shouldn’t do anything physical for pleasure. *disgusted noise* What is with culture?  
> I’m not saying in any way that rape is fine! Rape is not fine! No actually raping, anyone, ever! Good? Good. Okay.  
> Hey, please leave a comment and/or Kudos. I’m likely to write more with feedback. Maybe chronicling these two learning to communicate and/or a well-vetted Orlesian objectification party with Morrigan as an elegant end table and private back rooms. I mean. Or something?


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